


It'll Last Longer

by arden_scott



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, except a little bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arden_scott/pseuds/arden_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are ya gonna listen to me and stop makin’ those…sounds?”<br/>Thin fingers wrap around Bucky’s wrist and pull his hand away as Steve stands. He's still a good head shorter than Bucky, but right then, Bucky feels utterly dwarfed.<br/>“That depends,” Steve says, slow and soft and deep. It sends shivers down Bucky’s spine. “Are ya gonna stop me?”<br/>--<br/>Bucky has to work on a project for class. Steve disagrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It'll Last Longer

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this while taking a break from my own photography final, during which I spent hours each day in the dark room and thought of filthy things to keep myself sane, which probably says something very particular about me. Anyhow, it’s my first foray into MCU fic and playing with these characters, so any advice would be greatly appreciated! Self-beta’d, so all mistakes are mine!

Today is the most beautiful day of the year.

It’s early spring, and the weak sunshine has warmed the air enough that only a light jacket is necessary. The grimy snow that’s lined the streets for weeks is now melting and running down the sidewalk in steady streams, the sky is a cloudless blue, and the trees that line the street are starting to sprout new green leaves It is the most beautiful day of the year so far, and Bucky is spending it in the dusty, dark, stuffy basement of the Visual Arts Center.

“Why are you even taking this class?”

Bucky rolls his eyes at Steve’s grumbly whine and drops his backpack on the table. “’Cause I gotta take an art class to graduate, and since I, unlike you, can’t draw for shit, photography was my best option. Besides,” he adds, pulling a binder from his bag, “it’s not as bad as it seems.”

Steve pulls a face like he doesn’t believe him and tugs the binder from his hands, leafing through the plastic sheets slotted full of film negatives. “It’s not like I have anything against photography,” he says, squinting through his thick framed glasses at one of the sheets.  “I just didn’t think it would be your first choice.”

Bucky yanks the binder back, nearly snapping it shut on Steve’s nose, and chuckles at the indignant squawk the tiny blond makes. “And what, pray tell, did you think would have been my first choice?”

“I dunno, probably sculpture. Or ceramics. Something with your hands. You’re good with your hands,” Steve adds, and there it is, that glint in his eyes that, to Bucky, looks the way warning bells sound. He slides closer to Bucky, wrapping his big hands around Bucky’s hips, slim artist’s fingers digging into Bucky’s back.

“Pretty sure this thing would gum up real quick with all that clay,” Bucky murmurs, wiggling the silver fingers of his prosthetic in Steve’s face. He presses a slow, sweet kiss to Steve’s smirking lips before easing out of his boyfriend’s grasp. The basement is empty right now, but it’s always supervised by a student proctor, and as much as Bucky would love to do nothing but kiss Steve, he doesn’t really think the proctor would appreciate it. So he steps away, takes a few deep breaths, ignores Steve’s grumbling, and gets to work.

He pulls out a plastic sheet labeled “Steve” in his own messy chicken-scratch and lays it on the light table. There, backlit in harsh fluorescence, in black and white, are twenty-four miniscule pictures of one Steven Grant Rogers. He’s five-foot-four, barely breaks a hundred ponds soaking wet, and has a laundry list of medical conditions that would make any seasoned physician cringe, but Bucky thinks he’s the most beautiful, wonderful, perfect thing on god’s green earth. And that’s why he’s the focus of Bucky’s photography final.

Turning off the light table, Bucky grabs the plastic sheet and navigates the tiny, cluttered room.

“Come on,” he says, hooking a finger in Steve’s belt loop as he passes by and tugging him along behind him into the photography lab. As they walk through, Bucky points out each part of the lab. “Dark room for taking film out, sinks for processing, sinks for final washes, drying rack for…well, drying. And this is how you get into the dark room. You don’t have your phone on you, do ya? Because there can’t be any light in there other than the safelight.

“I left it in the apartment, like you told me to a billion times.”

Bucky grins and holds up his hands. “All right, all right, just makin’ sure. Can’t be too careful; this _is_ my final project an’ all. I got a lot ridin’ on this.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging on his lips. “Whatever you say, Buck. Now let’s get on with this; I wanna see the sun again sometime today.”

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Bucky reminds him, walking through the convoluted path to the dark room. The walls and ceiling are painted black, and a red light glows above them. “This is called a light maze,” he adds distractedly, turning another corner. “Doesn’t let any light in from outside the dark room.”

A second later the wall opens up to the dark room proper, and Bucky swallows down his chuckle at Steve’s gasp; the first time in a dark room can be disorienting for anyone.

Overhead, two safelights glow a sickly orange, casting petulant shadows that cling to anything and everything, turning their skin sallow. The walls are lined with sturdy countertops separated into cubbies by thick dividers, and in each cubby sits an enlarger. A plastic trough divides the room, and in the trough are trays of chemicals and distilled water.

For a moment, Bucky wonders if this was a good idea. Despite the glasses, Steve is still half-blind, and the kid could trip over his own shadow in a room as dim as this. And the harsh chemicals that fill the air could trigger an asthma attack any moment. Saying any of this aloud would do nothing but get Bucky punched, so he keeps his concerns to himself and resolves to listen for any catastrophes even more closely than usual.

Bucky walks over to his preferred station in the corner, organizes his supplies, and gets to work. He enjoys working in the dark room; there’s a set of steps that must be followed, a defined process. It doesn’t always work the first time (or twelve), but there are known ways to fix it, and they simply must be applied in the right order to come up with what you want. Sure, it’s much more difficult and frustrating in real life, but the knowledge that there is a process to all this is comforting to an engineering major like Bucky.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Steve clamber atop one of the rickety stools left in the dark room and pull out a small sketchbook and pencil. How Steve can see enough to be sketching, Bucky doesn’t know, but he’s known Steve long enough to understand there’s no point in bringing it up.

Doesn’t stop him from doing it, though.

“There definitely ain’t enough light in here for that, pal. You’re gonna strain your eyes.”

“Fuck off, Buck,” Steve replies placidly, leaning in so close to the sketchbook that his nose is practically touching the page.

Bucky can only sigh and turn back to his work. He projects an image onto the easel and fiddles with the dials on the enlarger until the picture is sharp and perfectly sized. Careful not to leave fingerprints or jostle anything, he slips a piece of silver paper into place and steps back, taking a moment to breathe—and hope for the best. This picture has been giving him trouble, coming out blurry or crooked, too light or too dark. Fingers crossed, Bucky sets the timer and presses the button. Light streams from the enlarger onto the paper, and though it takes only seconds, it feels like it lasts for ages. When the light turns off with a quiet click, Bucky eases the paper out and turns to the trough of processing chemicals.

“Here goes nothing,” he mutters under his breath, holding up the middle finger when Steve laughs softly behind him.

All at once, he dips the paper into the developer and waits, eyeing the clock carefully. Ten seconds, twenty, twenty-five…ah! Suddenly the image starts to take shape, blooming on the paper, spreading like ink to form the shapes of Steve’s smile-crinkled eyes framed by thick lashes. At long last, it’s perfect—crisp and clear, with just the right amount of deepest black, purest white, and soft silvery greys.

When the time is up, Bucky moves it to the tray of stop bath, then fixer, and finally water, turning on the faucet to keep the water running clean.

“C’mere, Steve, I finally got that print right.”

Steve crosses the room and peers down at the print in the water. “Jeez, Buck, is that really me?”

“’Course it’s you! Who else could it be?”

“I dunno, it’s just…well, it’s real nice, you did a great job.” There’s something in Steve’s voice, something slightly wonderstruck, and Bucky can’t quite figure out why.

“Helps that I had a beautiful model,” Bucky says, wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulling him close to kiss the top of his head.

“Aw, quit it, Buck!” Steve squirms out from under Bucky’s arm, trying and failing to look annoyed, his blush turning a strange deep red under the safelight.

Bucky laughs and shoos Steve back to his drawing, returning to his own work. Nearly two more hours pass this way, with Bucky flitting between his workstation and the trays of chemicals and water, and Steve’s pencil scratching gently across his paper. Bucky loves this part, _flow state,_ his sister called it once. When everything drops away and nothing else matters except what he’s working on, when it comprises all he sees and smells and hears and feels until the work is done.

That is, until Steve stretches, and, underlaid by the rippling pops of his knobby, crooked spine, lets out the most pornographic moan Bucky has ever heard outside their bedroom. All of a sudden his focus shifts so that the only thing he sees and smells and hears is Steve, _and good god_ , can he feel it.

Somehow, Steve seems to have sensed Bucky’s uncomfortable arousal, because a lascivious grin creases his lips, and before Bucky can stop him, he moans again. It’s slightly louder this time, and edged with amusement, but still, it doesn’t help.

Bucky practically leaps across the room and slaps a hand over Steve’s mouth, cutting off the breathy whine sliding out between his lips.

“Jesus, Steve! I said this room was _light proof_ , not _sound_ _proof!_ Someone could’ve heard!”

Even as he speaks, Bucky is glancing at the door, waiting for the proctor to burst in and kick them out. When he looks back down at Steve, it’s clear he’s still grinning, but his eyes have gone darker than they were before, even in the dim room, and his breathing has sped up, not in the way it does when is asthma is kicking in, but in the way it does when he’s got Bucky pinned beneath him on their bed.

_Oh, merciful lord._

The corners of Steve’s eyes crinkle as though he’s smirking, and Bucky only has a moment to wonder why before he feels the slimy slickness of Steve’s tongue licking his cupped palm.

“Eurgh, Steve, that’s disgusting! Do you have any idea the kind of shit chemicals I got on my hands? Seriously, pal, that was—oh, my god! Stop doing that!”

The heated groan Steve had been making turns into a husky laugh, muffled by Bucky’s prosthetic hand. The sound send electricity skating across Bucky’s nerves, heat pooling between his legs. _Damn him,_ he thinks, because Steve is fully aware the sounds he makes get Bucky going like nothing else. Bucky’s cock is thickening in his pants, making him half-hard already. He wants Steve, of course he wants Steve, he _always_ wants Steve, but the rational part of his brain is still in charge, and it’s telling him this is a bad idea. Steve’s eyes hold his like a challenge, and Bucky glares back, determined not to take it.

 “Are ya gonna listen to me and stop makin’ those…sounds?”

Thin fingers wrap around Bucky’s wrist and pull his hand away as Steve stands. He’s still a good head shorter than Bucky, but right then, Bucky feels utterly dwarfed.

“That depends,” Steve says, slow and soft and deep. It sends shivers down Bucky’s spine. “Are ya gonna stop me?”

Bucky’s resolve crumbles like ash from a cigarette. His pulse flares as Steve guides Bucky’s hand down between his own legs, as he feels Steve mold their hands against his burgeoning erection. Now it’s his turn to moan as Steve coaxes their fingers to knead his cock through his jeans, a rough exhalation masked by the drone of the exhaust fans.

“Does that feel good, Buck?” Steve asks, voice gone rough. “Hm? Do you like that?”

“Mmh, yeah, Stevie, feels real good, you always do. S- so good, unh…”

For a moment Bucky indulges in this, allows himself to get wrapped up in the feeling of Steve’s hands, the gentle puffs of his breath against Bucky’s collar bones. Steve steps closer, the heat of his body burning exquisitely against Bucky’s, the sold weight of his cock pressing against Bucky’s thigh.

“We shouldn’t,” Bucky whispers when Steve tilts his head up, looking for a kiss. “This is a bad idea.” But he still hasn’t pulled away, still hasn’t stopped touching himself; has, in fact, begun canting his hips up into his hand.

“You really want me to stop?”

“I…” his voice trails off into a splintered exhalation as Steve stretches up and licks the line of his jaw, nibbles at his earlobe, sucks at the thin skin of his throat. “Fuck, Steve, don’t stop,” he hisses, cock jumping against his palm. “Whatever you want, sweetheart, just do it.”

He knows it’s dangerous, giving Steve such freedom, but in this, Bucky trusts that he won’t do anything too reckless.

Most likely.

He probably will, really, but Bucky’s been through too much with this little punk, and a little semi-public sex won’t kill him.

Bucky bites his lip when Steve removes his hand from between his legs, grimacing at the loss of heat and pressure. Instead, one cool hand slides under his shirt and fans across his torso while the other hand cups his cheek and pulls him down for a kiss. He goes willingly; Bucky loves kissing Steve, loves the way Steve tastes on his tongue, loves swallowing the soft moans and breathy sighs Steve can’t hold back. Their lips slant together spit-slick and smooth and teasingly filthy in a way that makes Bucky’s cock ache.

Meanwhile Steve’s other hand is sliding across the skin of his belly and chest, tracing the trail of hair from the waistband of his jeans, dipping lightly into his belly button, gently scratching at his pectorals. Steve’s tongue _just_ swipes across Bucky’s lips when he thumbs none too gently at Bucky’s right nipple, forcing a sharp gasp past Bucky’s kiss-swollen lips.

“Christ, Stevie. Yes,” he groans, hips jerking when Steve pinches the sensitive nub again. “Got me so hard, baby doll. Can you feel me?”

Steve wedges himself closer, tighter, until Bucky’s cock is pressed firmly against Steve’s stomach. “Yeah, Buck, so hard for me.”

Bucky’s chest heaves under Steve’s hand, gulping and panting as his cock strains against his pants, the zipper of his jeans biting into the delicate skin. He whines brokenly as Steve continues to pluck and rub at his chest.

_“God,”_ he groans, “Steve, more, please! I’m dyin’ here, you gotta gimme more.” By now Bucky doesn’t care that they’re practically in public, that this is totally against the rules, that they could easily get caught. He’s too tangled up in Steve, skin burning with want and blood sparking with need and heart squeezing with _love_ , so much goddamned _love_ and adoration for this beautiful madman.

He might have even said that last part aloud, might have gasped out his love, _oh, god, Stevie, I love you, Jesus Christ_ , he might have done that because Steve chuckles softly against his lips, whispers _“I love you too.”_ He isn’t quite certain though, but he doesn’t really care; he always wants Steve to know how much Bucky loves him.

But right now he wants something else just a bit more, and he isn’t going to be coy about it any longer. He reaches up to grasp Steve’s other hand that’s knotted itself in his hair and lowers it between his legs again.

“Might love you a little better if you help me out here,” Bucky teases, rocking his hips against Steve’s palm.

“Your wish.” Steve nips once at Bucky’s lower lip and drops to his knees, nuzzling at the sizeable bulge with his cheek.

Heat flushes down Bucky’s body, from his hairline to his cock. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but Steve looks good on his knees, eyes wide and mouth slick. His slim fingers are quick as they undo Bucky’s jeans and push them down to mid-thigh. Steve leans in to press a sucking open-mouthed kiss to his cock through the fabric of Bucky’s boxers, already damp with precome.

_“Shit,”_ Bucky hisses. “Quit fuckin’ teasing me.”

Without a word, Steve complies, easing Bucky’s underwear over his erection and down his thighs. The still air feels cool on Bucky’s heated skin, makes him shiver as Steve’s careful fingers stroke along his cock. He gulps back a moan at the first touch of Steve’s tongue, gentle kitten licks around the head, designed to drive Bucky to distraction. He jerks only once before large hands are at his hips, pushing him back against the counter and holding them there.

“Don’t move yet,” Steve murmurs against the inside of his thigh. “Just let me make you feel good.”

Bucky barely gets a moment to prepare himself before the head of his cock is sucked into the wet heat of Steve’s mouth. He drags in a breath through his teeth as Steve draws more of him into his mouth, tongue teasing at the underside. A choked gurgle escapes Bucky’s throat, and the sound only gets worse when Steve hums a laugh around him.

Steve pulls back and opens his mouth wide, showing off how the tip of Bucky’s cock looks resting on his tongue, leaking precome and dripping with saliva. Bucky lets out a soft groan and cups Steve’s cheek in the palm of his prosthetic hand, drawing back until his cock slips out, sliding the thumb of his flesh hand in its place, running the pad of his finger over Steve’s tongue and teeth.

A high whine rises in Steve’s throat, desperate in a way Bucky can’t resist. He pulls his hand out and grabs his cock, stroking it slowly, skimming it over Steve’s lips and painting them with precome before inching back into Steve’s mouth. His eyes flutter at the slick warmth. Careful not to snag anything in the joints, he slides his metal hand up, fingers tangling in the longer hair atop Steve’s head.

“You’re so good, baby,” he whispers, heat spreading through his core as Steve tips his head to swallow more of Bucky’s cock. “Fuck yeah, Stevie, feels so good.”

His hips twitch ever so slightly, the animal desire to fuck and rut and come, but he’s above that, too afraid to let go of his control entirely. It would be all too easy to do damage, push too hard or trigger an asthma attack, and it’s definitely _not_ the sexiest line of thought when your boyfriend is blowing you, but this is their reality, and Bucky refuses to do anything that could hurt Steve.

But then Steve’s cool hand covers the hand Bucky has on his head and pulls, guiding Bucky’s cock further into his mouth. Bucky can only gap at the feeling of his tip bumping the soft flesh of Steve’s throat.

Steve pulls off and looks up, eyes dark under his long lashes. “Use me,” he whispers, voice hoarse. His hands return to Bucky’s torso, running across his sweat-damp skin. “C’mon, fuck my mouth, come down my throat, Buck. You won’t hurt me, I promise. I want you to, please.”

And _god_ , Bucky is powerless against Steve’s pleading, he always has been, and his hips start to move as if they know it. It pulls a strangled moan from somewhere deep in Steve’s chest, and that makes Bucky moan, too, because it’s fucking perfect, wet and hot and sloppy the way Bucky loves it, the tip of Steve’s nose buried in the thatch of wiry curls around the base of his cock.

“Oh, my god,” Bucky gasps, fingers tightening in Steve’s hair again as he picks up the pace. _“Your mouth, your fuckin’ mouth, baby doll, so good.”_

And it _is_ , it’s _so_ good, his mouth slick and tight, tongue rubbing _just right_ against the underside, lips stretched obscenely around his girth. The more he thinks about it, the longer he _looks_ at him, the hotter Bucky feels, until he’s burning, hands trembling and sweat beading on his temples, until he feels like he’s going to tear at the seams.

“Oh, Jesus, Stevie, I’m gonna come. Oh, oh, I’m gonna—”

Steve’s hands slide across his skin, one curling around to cup his ass and pull him closer, the other kneading gently at his perineum, brushing a finger over his hole. And that’s it, that’s all it takes. Bucky cries out, shaking apart and pulsing down Steve’s throat. He feels Steve pulling back, suckling on just the tip as his orgasm fades, leaving him sated but exhausted.

With careful, practiced motions, Steve puts Bucky back together and stands. Wordless, Bucky grabs him, kissing him for all he’s worth, tasting the bitterness of his come on Steve’s tongue.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me some day, I swear,” Bucky grouses against Steve’s lips, kissing away the asshole’s smug grin. He reaches down and cups Steve’s erection, the sharp gasp Steve lets out making up for the heart attack that is having sex in a school building. At this point, they might as well just go for it and continue having sex here. But it seems like Steve doesn’t feel the same.

“Uh-uh,” he says, kissing Bucky once, hard, before backing up with that shit-eating grin on his face that Bucky knows and fears—er, loves. “Clean your stuff up and come back to the apartment with me; I ain’t done with you yet.”

Bucky’s not sure if he’s ever packed his bag faster.


End file.
